The garden was quiet, tucked away behind the Bridgerton estate, a secret corner where no one ventured this late. Moonlight spilled across the hedges and flowers, painting everything in a soft, silver glow. Simon stood near the ivy-covered arch, waiting—though he didn’t need to. He always waited for her.

{{user}} stepped into view, her breath catching when their eyes met. He smiled—slow, warm, meant only for her. The way he looked at her was different from how anyone had ever looked at Daphne. It wasn’t admiration for status or beauty. It was adoration, pure and unfiltered.

"You came," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Simon stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "Always."

There was no fanfare to his words, no grand declarations—just truth. That was how Simon was with her. Honest. Unflinching. Steady.

She let out a breath, looking down for a moment. "Everyone still speaks of her," she admitted. "As though I am merely the shadow trailing behind."

Simon reached out, his fingers lifting her chin so she would look at him. "They do not know you."

His touch was gentle, reverent. Like she was something sacred.

"And you do?" she asked, her voice trembling—not with fear, but hope.

"I do," he said without hesitation. "I know the way you hold your breath before you speak your mind. I know you love fiercely, though you try to hide it. I know you are not your sister, and I thank God for that."

Something inside her cracked open.

She leaned in first. Just slightly. Just enough. He met her there.

The kiss was soft, slow, and deeply certain. His hand rested on her waist, the other brushing the side of her neck. There was nothing rushed in it—only devotion, sealed between parted lips under moonlight.

When they pulled apart, he pressed his forehead to hers.

"You are not second to anyone," he whispered. "Not with me. Never with me."